


Not Gonna Say

by mixtapestar



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Episode: s01e03 Consequences of Advanced Spellcasting, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixtapestar/pseuds/mixtapestar
Summary: "Let's not talk," Eliot says, topping off Quentin's wine glass. Quentin stares back at him, lids heavy, mouth slightly open, and Eliot thinks,this is my moment. He waits, nonsensically, for something to interrupt them—the cottage is never this quiet—but nothing does. It's just him and Quentin.Eliot chickens out.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 25
Kudos: 116
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Not Gonna Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotteredUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotteredUp/gifts).



> For PotteredUp's holiday stocking! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This was entirely inspired by "Not Gonna Say", a wonderful Magicians song by Lauren Fairweather, which you can find [here](https://laurenfairweather.bandcamp.com/track/not-gonna-say)!

"Let's not talk," Eliot says, topping off Quentin's wine glass. Quentin stares back at him, lids heavy, mouth slightly open, and Eliot thinks, _this is my moment_. He waits, nonsensically, for something to interrupt them—the cottage is never this quiet—but nothing does. It's just him and Quentin.

He takes a deep breath and—sits back. He can't do it. He takes a deep gulp of wine directly from the bottle, hating himself a little. Since when does he not try to seduce the straight boys? Since today, apparently. It's just—that _face_ Quentin had made when he'd come back, unerased, unexpelled, and Eliot called out his name. God help him, but Eliot is _invested_. Which, sadly, means that one glorious night of drunken experimentation—on Quentin's part, Eliot has long since proven _his_ hypothesis—is not in the cards.

Next to him, Quentin sighs heavily, lifting him out of his navel-gazing thoughts. "I'm not very good at the not talking thing," Quentin says. "Maybe you should tell me how it's done. Or… show me? I don't know. See? I'm hopeless."

Eliot chuckles, nudging Quentin's wine glass back toward his mouth. "It means drink," he lies. "Until you feel better, or forget. Or come up with a wild idea to make things right. The wild ideas don't always pan out in the light of day, but they're a nice distraction."

Quentin takes another sip of wine and frowns. "Can you make me something stronger?"

Eliot grins, patting Quentin on the shoulder. "I thought you'd never ask."

They continue to drink, Eliot sticking to wine as Quentin gets more and more… _fluid_ , his body melting all over Eliot the more he drinks, his mind jumping from one topic to the next and taking Eliot on the journey with him.

Eliot is just the right level of wine drunk, a little floaty and pleasantly warm, tipping his head back and letting Quentin's enthusiastic prattle about the Fillory books wash over him. His crush feels less painful like this, just a little detail irrelevant to the reality of spending an evening with Quentin pressed up to his side, talking about something called the cozy horse like it's the best thing he's ever heard of.

But then something shifts—Eliot misses what may have triggered it—and suddenly Quentin's tone morphs into a flat, self-loathing thing. He's back to where they started, talking about the hedge bitch and how he's ruined everything.

Eliot sighs and smooths Quentin's hair back down where he's tousled it. "Look, I may be able to get my hands on a cell phone, if you're desperate. The wards fuck with outgoing calls, but you can apologize to your girl with the flair of a twenty-first century man, in text form, complete with begging emojis."

Quentin laughs mirthlessly. "She is _really_ not my girl." After a moment, he seems to process what Eliot has said. "Wait, seriously? Oh my god, Eliot, that would be amazing. I think if I could just get her to _talk_ to me, and I'm way less likely to fuck it up over text, I just got so—fuckin', I dunno, caught up. I can't believe I made it sound like she deserved to be without magic because she didn't requite my feelings or some shit. God."

"That's not… _exactly_ what you said," Eliot says, trying to be supportive.

"El, you were there. You know how it sounded." Eliot tries to tell himself he's unaffected by the use of the nickname, or the way Quentin's hand has rested on his knee ever since Quentin used the word 'amazing'. "I don't even _feel_ that way about her 'nymore. I mean, it's safe to say I've moved on," he continues, waving the hand with the martini glass out in a demonstrative gesture that has Eliot cringing at the spill.

"Alright, I think that's enough for the evening," Eliot says, leaning over Quentin to take his glass away. He hears Quentin's breath catch, so very close to his ear, as his fingers wrap around the stem. Before he knows what's happening, Quentin's now-free hand is clutching at his tie and pulling him in at an odd angle, Quentin's lips mashing up against the side of his mouth.

Eliot turns his head to demand what the fuck that was, but he only gets as far as, "Q, what—" before Quentin takes advantage of the better angle, tilting his head minutely and moving back in, no less eager but with much better aim.

It's a sloppy kiss, but it serves to take that pleasant warmth that's been sitting in Eliot's belly and stoke it into a fire, and Quentin takes advantage of his surprise to slip his tongue into his mouth. Eliot kisses back without a thought, the heat of Quentin's mouth so inviting, his cock stirring as Quentin moans in the back of his throat.

As he pulls back to set the martini glass aside, for better use of his hands, something clicks in the back of his mind. Quentin's eyes are still gently shut, his lips pursed, an image that will remain seared into Eliot's memory even as he realizes how ill-advised this is. It had been one thing to start seducing Quentin at the beginning of their night, lending a friendly ear that might lead to a friendly orgasm, but he knows exactly how much liquor went into the drinks Quentin has had since then, and it's not negligible. Quentin opens his eyes and paws at Eliot's chest, making his heart race. _God_ , how drunk _is_ he?

"Alright, Q. Let's get you up to your new room."

"Already?" Quentin says, giggling while Eliot hoists him off the couch. "I figured you moved fast but… something something buy me dinner first. Except don't," he babbles, leaning into Eliot's space for another kiss, but it's easy to dodge him given their height difference.

"No 'bedroom activities' for you. Just bed," Eliot says firmly.

"Aww," Quentin says, pouting. His body is so warm and pliant as Eliot manhandles him up the stairs. It's just unfair. All the best ones are straight.

Once in his bedroom, Quentin is no less insistent, but his slow reaction times make it easy for Eliot to stay away from his lingering, tempting touches. Eliot convinces him to drink some water and, desperately, starts saying completely wrong things about Fillory so Quentin will hyperfocus on something else.

He's flooded with relief—and the knowledge that he'll get another kind of relief soon, in his own room—when Quentin starts to nod off, mid-sentence on an explanation of Chimney's Torrent or whatever. But the bed creaks when he goes to stand, and Quentin reaches for him, begging him to stay.

"Tomorrow's Quentin would probably prefer for me to go," Eliot murmurs, flicking his wrist to dim the lights further.

Quentin frowns. "He's not the boss of me," he says, somewhat nonsensically, his grip on Eliot's wrist still ironclad.

"I'll stay 'til you fall asleep, okay?" Eliot says, cursing himself for how little he can resist Quentin.

He sits up against the pillows as Quentin slips under the covers, shimmying out of his jeans and tossing them over the side. Definitely not something to dwell on, what Quentin's thighs look like under the comforter, how he could have seen for himself if he hadn't stuck to his goddamn _principles_. Soon enough, Quentin starts snoring lightly, and Eliot is careful not to let the bed creak as he gets up and walks away.

He shuts the door behind him and takes a deep breath. Now that that's taken care of, he's earned his own strong drink.

***

Eliot doesn't see Quentin at all the next morning, which is no surprise. He'll likely avoid Eliot for a few days until he can score with a girl, and then the coast will be clear for them to continue their friendship without awkwardness.

He fills Margo in with his own version of events over breakfast mimosas, leaving out Quentin's alcohol-driven kiss and subsequent attempts at groping. He knows that it's the juiciest part of the story, but he doesn't want to embarrass the boy, at least not until they've both dealt with it and moved on.

Margo, for her part, doesn't give him the unconditional support he was expecting. "So you just gave up without even trying? You know 'friends with benefits' isn't just a one-off, right? There's a reason there's a whole-ass term for it."

Eliot rolls his eyes, picking delicately at his croissant. "This is different."

"What's different?" asks Todd, breezing into the middle of their conversation out of nowhere.

"Your fashion decisions," Margo says without missing a beat, and Eliot is relieved to shift the focus away from his misadventure with Quentin.

Eliot spends his afternoon poring over a meta-composition textbook, hoping to craft a spell that will allow him to keep cocktail glasses chilled without taking up space in their fridge. He's got the chilling spell down, but still can't get it stable enough to hold longer than twenty minutes or so, and that's when Quentin finds him. He drops down next to Eliot on the couch, slumping against him. Okay, this is a much better outcome than Eliot was expecting. Maybe Quentin has forgotten the incident with the sloppy, drunk kissing. Good. No need to muddy the waters.

"Alice is mad at me," Quentin says with a sigh. "Apparently she expected me to meet her in the library last night."

Eliot slips an arm around his shoulders, setting aside the glass covered with stubborn condensation. "I didn't realize you two had plans."

"Neither did I!" Quentin says, indignant. "Apparently it's my fault she couldn't move forward with her next attempt to contact her brother. I dunno, I guess I should just be grateful she didn't cut off a finger."

Eliot cringes. "Promise you'll tell me the next time she ropes you into one of her schemes? I know you can take care of yourself," he adds when Quentin pouts, "but we both know what happened last time. I can at least provide backup."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea," Quentin allows. He still looks sad.

"Oh! I got that cell phone you wanted," Eliot says, fishing it out of his pocket. Quentin's eyes light up as he hands it over. "If you need help finding her number—"

Quentin waves him off. "No need, I've had it memorized since we were nine. It was a safety, parental thing. Know how to reach someone in case of—whatever, all that."

Eliot tries not to stare as Quentin types out his message, biting his lip in concentration as he tries to get the wording just right. After a full minute of failing at that, Eliot picks his meta-comp book back up so he can at least pretend to be absorbed in something else.

"Okay," Quentin mumbles to himself, accompanied by the little _swoop_ of a sent message. He bounces his leg a little as he stares at the screen. "Oh! She's typing."

Eliot laughs a little to himself. Of course Quentin would be this invested in a text conversation. Then again, this Julia chick seems pretty important to him. Eliot can only hope he can reach a level of closeness to merit such attention in the future.

The default _ding_ of an incoming text message goes off, and Quentin goes rigid. Eliot rolls his eyes at the tone; he'll have to talk with the Nature kid he got the phone from about his lack of originality. "Okay, alright," Quentin says, rolling his shoulders. "She's still pissed, but I mean, that's not surprising." He reads back over the text and nods. "I think I can work with this."

As Quentin continues to text, it starts to get boring, and Quentin clearly doesn't need his help, so Eliot shifts his focus back to the glasses. After every _swoop_ of a sent message, Quentin fidgets into a new position, until finally he stretches out across the couch, knees up, with his head resting on Eliot's thigh.

"Any luck?" Eliot says, pitching his voice to sound unconcerned.

Quentin sighs. "I dunno. She's listening, at least. I'm not sure we're anywhere near the same page yet, though."

"Why don't you try talking about those books you both love so much?" His fingers go to pet Quentin's hair almost absently, and he realizes 'unconcerned' was never really an option. "Maybe you can work with literally getting her on the same page."

"Oh! That's a great idea," he says, already typing. "There's a part in _The Flying Forest_ where Jane and Rupert have a fight over what to do about the centaurs, it actually applies to this _really well_."

Eliot gives up the pretense of working on anything else, waiting and watching the emotions play out over Quentin's face. Another _ding_ , and—

"She's agreed to meet me for coffee," Quentin says, sighing in relief and dropping the phone face-down on his chest. He smiles blissfully up at Eliot.

Eliot smiles back, his heart thumping in his chest. He can't help himself around Quentin, thrilling at every smile like he's back in high school and Quentin is the star soccer player, looking his way a bit too often to be coincidence.

Quentin's smile shifts after a moment, beginning to fade. "So, um, can I ask you something?" Eliot's heart jumps into his throat at the earnestness in his voice. Not trusting his own voice, he just nods. "I know I kinda… pounced on you last night." Quentin cringes. "Sorry. Just, um, did you turn me down because I was drunk, or…?"

"Consent is key, Quentin," Eliot says carefully.

"So, I mean, I'm sober now," Quentin says, sitting up and twisting around quickly to face Eliot, half-falling back into his lap in his clumsiness. Eliot chooses to fixate on that rather than whatever is about to come out of Quentin's mouth. But Quentin doesn't elaborate further, just stares back at him, nervous and expectant.

Given the choice, Eliot will usually take sober experimentation over the alternative. The sex is nearly always better, but so is the likelihood of the guy no homo-ing out before they get to the good stuff. He has to remind himself why he didn't go for it last night. He actually _likes_ Quentin, and seducing the straight boy isn't often conducive to remaining friends after.

"Unless…" Quentin's eyes shutter, and he eases back from Eliot, who has apparently left it too long. "It's me, right? Sorry. I shouldn't—"

"Hey, no, this is not me turning you down," Eliot says, his misgivings vanishing in favor of reassuring Quentin.

"No, it's okay. It was stupid," Quentin says, tucking himself into the far end of the couch and drawing his knees up. Eliot's heart aches at how quickly Quentin went from open and wanting to withdrawn, assuming a rejection. Quentin clutches the phone in his hands. "Oh, wow, this phone has Angry Birds on it. I didn't think that game was still around."

"Q—" Eliot begins, then sighs. There's no need to keep tiptoeing around this. The whole point is that Quentin is too important to risk their friendship, so the least he can do is admit the truth. "It's really nothing personal. I'd love to make your first time with a guy epic and unforgettable, but not if you can't look me in the eye after."

Quentin frowns. "It would hardly be my first time with a guy." Eliot arches an eyebrow, disbelieving. Quentin unfolds a bit, anger edging into his expression. "Also, it shouldn't matter whether it is. Please don't make me give you the 'you can still be bisexual without experience' talk; it's been a long couple of days, and I'm tired."

Parts of Eliot that he's intentionally kept numb start coming alive suddenly, with little sparks of possibility, like someone is holding a sparkler to his chest. It's a fight to keep his voice even as he says, "Is this your way of telling me you're bi?"

"El, I kissed you last night. As I recall, I tried to do more than that," Quentin says, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Plenty of guys have done that and gone on to insist on their heterosexuality, especially when alcohol's in the mix." He doesn't know why he's arguing. _Quentin is bi_. Quentin _actually_ wants him. This changes everything.

"Okay, well, that's on them I guess, but I'm definitely bi." He sounds so _grumpy_ ; it's the best thing Eliot's ever heard.

He stops fighting against his smile and stands, holding a hand out toward Quentin and saying, "C'mon."

"Wh—where are we going?" Quentin asks, reaching out slowly to take Eliot's hand.

"My room… or yours. Your choice. We can start making out here if you like, but the things I wanna do with you aren't fit for public consumption. Unless you're into that."

Quentin stands from the couch, his grip firm in Eliot's hand, but Eliot doesn't move just yet. He can see the uncertainty in Quentin's expression, and he wants him to be sure. "You're—um, you're not messing with me, right? We're not gonna get to your room and find Margo there with a camera and a 'got you' sign?"

The way he's looking up at Eliot, so vulnerable and kissable, Eliot can't resist anymore. He cups Quentin's jaw with his free hand and leans down to taste those beautiful lips. Quentin whines the tiniest bit and then _moves_ into the kiss with his entire body, clutching at the back of Eliot's vest and pressing up against him. _God_ , he's gonna be even better than Eliot imagined. Eliot's breath is shaky when he finally pulls away. "No tricks, I promise. And I'm not opposed to inviting Margo in with a camera, but maybe next time. This first time, I want you all to myself."

" _Fuck_ , Eliot," Quentin says, laughing shakily as he presses his forehead to Eliot's shoulder.

"Upstairs?" Eliot suggests, squeezing Quentin's hand in his.

" _Yes_ ," Quentin says, and lets himself be led.

Out of habit, Eliot makes his way toward his own room, but on the way Quentin mumbles, "Mine's closer," and pulls him out of the hall into his room.

They don't even manage to get the door shut before Quentin is pressing Eliot up against the wall, his shyness long gone as he grabs two fistfuls of fabric and pulls Eliot down to claim his mouth.

"Mm," Eliot hums into Quentin's mouth, closing the door and flicking the lock with an easy movement of his fingers before putting his hands to better use, sliding one under Quentin's shirt to feel the warmth of his skin and the other around to cup Quentin's ass through his jeans. Quentin moans his approval, grinding up against Eliot's thigh as his tongue slides over Eliot's, sloppy yet confident and incredibly sexy. Eliot decides he wants to feel how hard Quentin is, properly, sliding his hand out from under Quentin's shirt and trailing his fingers over the fly of Quentin's jeans to trace the outline of his cock under the material.

"Yeah," Quentin whines against Eliot's lips. "You can take them off," he says as he starts to work on the buttons of Eliot's vest. Eliot doesn't need to be told twice, slipping the button free and pulling at Quentin's zipper until he can rub the heel of his hand along Quentin's length over the thin barrier of his boxers.

" _God_ , your hands," Quentin moans. "Can we—?" He cuts himself off, licking a stripe over Eliot's neck, worrying at the spot as Eliot's breath hitches at the sensation.

"Can we what? What can I do for you, Q?"

Quentin sinks down a couple of inches as he rests his weight back on his heels. He's so red that the flush keeps going past the neck of his shirt. Eliot wishes they were already naked so he could see everywhere that blush covered. "I, um—I'd really like it if you fingered me. I mean, only if that's something you, y'know, like."

Eliot only stops himself from laughing at the absurdity that he _wouldn't_ love to finger Quentin because of the sheer nervousness radiating off of him. "It's definitely something I like. Especially if you want it."

"I know about the sex spells, um. That would let us bypass some things, if you wanted to fuck me." Jesus, if Eliot thought Quentin was red before, he's practically on fire now. Eliot takes a steadying breath and moves his hands to Quentin's hips. "But despite what I said downstairs, um, I'm not exactly… _well-versed_ in that. Like, with anyone."

Meaning he's never been fucked before. _God_. "We don't have to do that. Today, or ever, if you don't want it. There's lots of sex magic out there, some of it beautiful, some of it kinky, some of it absurd. And yeah, sometimes it's useful, but just because it _can_ be done doesn't mean we have to do it that way." The protection spell is the only one Eliot ever insists on. There's no excuse for someone to wind up with a magical STI when all it takes to prevent is a couple contortions of the fingers.

"I've gotten the hang of the cleaning and lube spells," Quentin says, "um, y'know, on my own. But I haven't tried anything else."

"This one is for protection," Eliot explains, tracing out the spell against his own chest and feeling the magic wash over him. "Simple and quick."

"Right," Quentin says, holding up his hand and imitating Eliot's movements. Eliot has to show him one small correction, but then he can see the satisfaction in Quentin's eyes as the spell takes hold.

"Now you're ready for anything," Eliot says, grinning, and before he knows what's happening, Quentin's mouth is on his again.

Kissing Quentin with intent is so much better than Eliot could have dared to dream. In his fantasies, Quentin was always pliant, accepting Eliot's affections happily, but that's nothing to the eager, responsive _beast_ that Quentin is in real life. His hands feel like they're everywhere, first at his neck, cupping his jaw, then working at his buttons, then ghosting over his cock far too fleetingly before moving instead to his ass to pull him closer. Eliot, for his part, reaches into Quentin's boxers to feel the warm, solid heat of his cock, only pulling away long enough to perform the spell to gather moisture from the air, then returning with a slick hand and stroking Quentin firmly. He pushes Quentin's jeans from his hips with a little telekinetic assistance, and Quentin moans urgently into the kiss as he pushes into Eliot's fist.

"Okay, stop, stop," Quentin says as he wrenches his mouth away, pulling back from Eliot's hand. His eyes look wild and hungry. "It's—too good, I think. I need to, like, focus on something else for a while. Can I suck you off?" _Jesus Christ_. "I mean, I'm definitely not good enough to, like, deepthroat. But I'm not bad either, like. I've had good reviews."

Eliot doesn't know what to do with this boy. _Good reviews_. "That sounds amazing, Q, but I should probably warn you. I may be quite a bit… _bigger_ than what you're used to dealing with."

Quentin raises his eyebrows, but Eliot just shrugs. It's not a brag, just a fact. Quentin wouldn't be the first one to shy away at his size. But instead, Quentin grins. "I like a challenge."

Eliot undoes his fly easily, shimmying out of his underwear and pants with a flourish, pleased to watch Quentin's eyes take in his nakedness with a sense of hunger in his expression.

"Oh god, you weren't kidding. Okay," Quentin says, stepping forward.

"Not too late to change your mind, you know."

Quentin's eyes are sparkling when they meet his. "No, don't worry. This is actually… really exciting. God, you're so hot." And he pulls him into another scorching kiss.

Eliot's brain short-circuits when Quentin sinks to his knees, his mouth close enough that Eliot can feel his breath against the head of his cock. He scrabbles his hands uselessly against the wall, looking for purchase, as Quentin takes his time, licking up and down his length, getting him good and wet before sinking his mouth down over the head of Eliot's cock.

Quentin's mouth is absolutely ridiculous. It's a thought Eliot's had before, mostly when listening to him chatter on about Fillory or his theories on the existence of actual mutants a-la the X-Men, but never in this context. Sure, he's fantasized a bit, but never did he dare to believe Quentin's mouth would be _this good_. And he's so responsive, too, cluing in to everything that Eliot likes and trying it again twice as hard. Jesus, no wonder he's had 'good reviews'.

Quentin pulls off and fondles his balls, his searing gaze and swollen lips nearly enough to undo Eliot right then and there. "You can put your hands on me, you know. I don't mind if you pull my hair."

"When I brought you up here, it was supposed to be about _me_ making _you_ feel good," Eliot says, his words coming out a little shakily. His fingers slide into Quentin's hair like they're made to be there.

Quentin takes him in hand, flicking out his tongue against Eliot's frenulum, and Eliot has to breathe hard through his nose to not let the simple sensation overwhelm him. "Don't worry," Quentin assures him, "I like this."

Quentin closes his mouth over his cock, pulling him in further than before and sucking intently. Eliot's fingers flex in Quentin's hair, hoping that his moans are encouraging Quentin, because for a moment he can't manage to form words.

" _Ohhh_ fuck," he finally manages, trying to pull himself together enough to give Quentin a warning. "That's so good, Q. You're gonna make me come, baby, you should probably— _ah_ , stop that if you don't want to—" but Quentin doesn't stop. Instead he slides his palms up over the curve of Eliot's ass and sucks harder, and Eliot can do nothing but surrender to that heat building up in his spine, his thighs tensing as he pulses into Quentin's inviting, impossible mouth.

When Quentin rises back up a hazy few moments later, he's grinning like he's won a prize. "I don't know why I thought that would take the edge off. You're so fucking sexy. I could come just from the thrill of getting you off."

Eliot licks his way into Quentin's mouth, chasing his own taste on Quentin's tongue. "Still want my fingers?"

" _God_ yes." Quentin strips down, endearingly eager as he trips his way out of his jeans toward the bed. Eliot takes his time shedding the last of his clothing, eyes trained on Quentin as he tries to get comfortable, propped up against the headboard with a pillow under his ass. He's certainly a pretty picture, and one that Eliot intends to keep long after this day is over.

After performing the cleaning spell, Eliot teases him for a bit, tracing a finger over his perineum, skimming over his hole fleetingly with the pad of his dry finger, all of it making Quentin whine. Finally, he takes mercy on Quentin, slicking up his fingers and pressing against his entrance slightly, asking, "Ready?"

" _Please_ ," Quentin says, and Eliot wastes no more time. He pushes in up to the second knuckle, and Quentin whimpers, the sound somewhere between praise and a plea. Eliot runs his other hand up over Quentin's side, onto his chest, murmuring to him until he can feel him relax. He works his finger in and out, his mind on all the things they might be able to do in the future, and it's hard not to get lost in it, especially with Quentin's moans urging him on. "El, c'mon," Quentin says, pulling him out of his thoughts. "More, I can take more."

And _god_ , he takes the next one eagerly, mumbling the whole time about how good it feels. Being inside him, watching Quentin squirm over his two fingers, Eliot's even more overwhelmed than he'd been with his cock in Quentin's mouth. He realizes his mouth is hanging open, staring down at this incandescent man, and snaps it shut. He's surprised he isn't drooling. He swallows a couple of times until he can trust his voice, and then pets Quentin's hip as he says, "You're gorgeous."

Quentin hums as his eyebrows draw together, looking far too serious. Definitely not the reaction Eliot was hoping for. "You don't have to say that. Just keep making me feel good."

Eliot huffs. "It's true. My eyes find you the moment we're in the same room. You're so hot that it's distracting. It's ridiculous that you don't know it."

" _God_ , I don't—I don't know if I believe you, but I want to."

Eliot stretches over Quentin's body, hovering with his lips a mere inch from Quentin's before whispering, "Believe it," and smoothing his fingertips deliberately over Quentin's prostate. He swallows Quentin's moan as he closes the distance, kissing him filthily.

"More," Quentin begs between kisses, and Eliot shifts to add a third finger. Quentin opens up for him so perfectly, clenching and then relaxing, making the most beautiful noises as Eliot strokes the most vulnerable part of him.

An idea strikes him, and he sits up, finding a good balance where he can continue to fuck Quentin on his fingers while sliding the three fingers of his other hand up against Quentin's kiss-wet lips. Quentin sucks his fingers inside eagerly, tracing his tongue around them and moaning. He goes _wild_ when Eliot starts to thrust his fingers in and out, repeating the same motion into the velvet heat of his hole and into the insistent suction of his mouth.

"You like it so much, don't you? Having something inside you, filling you up?"

Quentin moans, letting Eliot's fingers fall from his mouth. "Feels so good. Will you fuck me next time? I want to feel you."

Eliot swallows to keep from making the ungodly sound creeping its way up his throat. "We uh, should probably work up to that. Seeing as you're not so ' _well-versed_ '."

Quentin rolls his eyes and his hips, trying to get Eliot's fingers where he wants them. "Just because I haven't had any live dicks up there doesn't mean I don't have experience."

Eliot splutters, both at the statement and the mental image. " _Live_ dicks?" he says, cracking a smile.

Quentin smiles, pleased with himself. "No live dicks. Only pre-recorded ones." Quentin's grin transforms into an open, wanton thing as he moans, Eliot's fingers gliding over his prostate again. Eliot can't remember the last time he had this much _fun_ hooking up with someone.

"Even if we don't get that far, I'd love to take my time with you next time, get you open with my tongue." 

A broken moan escapes from Quentin as he brings a hand up to grip the base of his cock tightly. "Hold still," he demands firmly, the muscles of his neck stretched taut. After a moment, he relaxes with a shaky exhale. "Sorry. I'm not usually so…" He trails off, waving his hand. Eliot's not sure how that sentence is supposed to end. Enthusiastic? Fucking hot? "It's just— that's definitely been one of my fantasies."

Well _fuck_. The idea that Quentin's thought of him, not just once but in multiple scenarios, is nearly unfathomable. As is the fact that they're both clearly on board for doing this again. "It's okay if you come, you know. That's kinda why we're here."

"I know, I just—I don't want it to be over yet." His breath catches as Eliot runs his palm over his shaft.

Eliot laughs. "My evening is free. Keep up those noises and it won't take very long for me to be ready for round two."

" _Oh god_. Really? We can go again tonight?"

Eliot smirks. "Absolutely. We could do something to fill the refractory period if you want. Last night's Quentin wanted me to buy him dinner first. That could be arranged."

The look of absolute, unbridled affection shining back at him from Quentin's eyes makes Eliot's heart clench. He clings to his smirk desperately, trying to keep his cool. "Okay," Quentin finally says. "You should touch me, then."

Eliot performs the spell to wet his hand, gripping at Quentin's beautiful, flushed, rigid cock and stroking it intently. He knows what he's doing, here, and soon he can see from the look on Quentin's face just how well it's working.

"Yeah, _yeah,_ " Quentin whines, writhing under his touch. " _Fuck_ El, I'm so close, just keep moving—"

"Yeah, that's it," Eliot mutters, fucking him with his fingers, pumping him fast and hard until Quentin cries out, clenching down on him and coming _hard_ , all over his chest. "God, _yes_ , you really are so gorgeous," Eliot says, stroking him slowly through his orgasm.

"Holy _fuck_ ," Quentin says once he's got his breath back.

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, running his fingers through the mess on Quentin's chest and resting his hand there as he moves up to kiss him. He'll clean them up in a minute.

Quentin grins as he kisses back. "That was so much better than I imagined."

"Likewise," Eliot says, running the pad of his thumb over Quentin's lower lip.

"You thought about me?" Quentin asks, looking vulnerable.

"When _haven't_ I thought about you?"

"I just thought… you took so much convincing, so I…" He trails off, shrugging, his eyes cutting away.

Eliot tucks Quentin's hair behind his ear, moving the fingers of his other hand in the precise movements of the cleaning spell before moving closer, cuddling up to Quentin's side. "Make no mistake, Q. Any hesitation I had before was entirely borne from potentially scaring away my straight friend. Since that's no longer a concern, you're gonna have to fight to get rid of me."

Quentin's eyes meet his, a smile slowly forming on his lips. "You know I'm not much of a fighter."

"Then I guess you're stuck with me," Eliot says with a grin before swooping in to kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! <3


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